The Savage Realms

by Willard Black

  Cinder swung down out of the saddle and rubbed her backside. “Why don’t they attack?”

  “They haven’t got archers,” Mercer said. “Redgate is outnumbered but they have several regiments of trained longbow men.”

  “And women,” Trix said.

  “And women,” Mercer added. “Some of those guys, and girls, can hit a target at two hundred yards. The Ravagers are staying out of bow shot. For now.”

  “Think Redgate can hold the line?” Trix wondered aloud.

  Mercer shook his head. “The Ravagers will eventually break through.”

  “Should we turn aside to help?” Trix asked.

  “The three of us won’t make much difference,” Mercer told her.

  Drake’s eyes went to the Tower of Dhingol.

  Mercer read his thoughts and said, “Even you’re not that good.”

  “Bite your tongue,” Drake said. “I’m the best in the Realms.”

  “The last guy who was the best in the Realms went nuts,” Cinder pointed out.

  “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs,” Drake said. “And a hundred fifty a day is a lot of money.”

  Mercer snorted. “You aren’t going to turn down a shot at the ten million to fight for Redgate.”

  Drake’s mouth twisted into a frown. “No. But if we don’t find that money, I’m coming back here and going to work for Barron Kriss.”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Mercer said.

  “That still leaves us with the question of how to make our way north,” Trix said. “We certainly can’t go through the Pass.”

  All four turned their eyes on the jagged peaks of the Devil’s Pitchfork. Those snow-covered mountains reared into the clear blue sky, summits lost in the clouds and feet blanketed by a carpet of hardwoods painted in the vibrant hues of early autumn.

  Mercer hitched a deep sigh. “One thing is sure; we’ll need to go into Redgate for supplies, whichever path we chose, and we might as well do that before making a decision.”

  No one argued the idea and they turned their horses toward the towering spire of Dhingol, setting a leisurely pace across the fertile farmlands that carpeted the wide plateau.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The last of the light was failing and night was coming on fast by the time they reached the towering walls of Redgate. They had passed two dozen farms along the way; most were empty and forlorn. The farmhands had fled before the advancing Ravagers. Few farmers remained, and they watched the passing riders with wary expressions or shuttered their doors and windows at the sound of hooves. Crops that should have been harvested already were spoiling in the cool weather. Tall heads of grain drooped, sad and dying. Squashes were rotted and sunken and turnips shriveled. Beyond the farms, the grim stone fortification loomed up before them, and men-at-arms passed along the crenellated parapet. The massive southern gate stood open, but a contingent of guards stood watch before the doors.

  “Two Byte apiece,” one of the men called out at their approach.

  Mercer checked his steed and questioned the man with a look.

  “Two Byte apiece entry fee,” the guard explained. “You’ll pay the same tax when you leave. Unless you’re militia, in which case you’ll have to show papers.”

  “Does the tax go to the war effort?” Mercer guessed.

  “That’s right,” the guard said. “Barron Kriss will need every Byte to pay for soldiers unless Thunderside sends reinforcements soon, and that doesn’t seem likely. We heard there was a cave-in, wiped out most of the town.”

  “We just came from Thunderside,” Mercer told the man.

  “Is it as bad as they say?” one of the other guards wanted to know.

  “It wasn’t the whole town,” Mercer said, “but it was pretty bad. They’ll be hard-pressed to send any troops.”

  The group of soldiers dropped their heads and shuffled their feet at the news. The leader said, “You Mercer and Drake?”

  Mercer glanced at Drake, who shrugged. Mercer said, “That’s right.”

  The guard’s gaze took in both of the women and he said, “Which one of you is Trix?”

  She tipped a nod.

  The guard asked, “You here to fight?”

  Mercer shook his head. “Just here for supplies.”

  The guard’s brow furrowed. “Names like yours would boost morale. Hell, Baron Kriss would probably pay you double the going fee.”

  “Shut up, Cutter. You ain’t authorized to make offers like that,” said another guard.

  “You shut up, Boll. I’m authorized to sign on new recruits.” He looked back at Mercer and his expression changed. He shrugged. “It’s true I can’t promise you extra Byte, but we could use the help. We can’t hold out much longer.”

  Drake shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.

  Mercer shook his head. “Sorry, pal. We’ll pay the tax and be on our way.”

  They counted out eight ByteCoin before passing under the towering stone arch into the bustling city. Winding cobblestone lanes ran between houses packed close together. Migrants in lean-tos and shanties clogged the streets. Half the farm hands had taken shelter inside the city walls and more were on the battlefield. Even more had fled, but the lanes of Redgate were still overflowing. Trash littered the gutters and mongrel dogs roamed in packs. They would be food if the Ravagers broke through the pass and the city came under siege.

  Their horse’s hooves clopped against the paved roads and geese ran under foot, honking. Mercer steered the group through the throngs to the Heights District, where they would pay double the going rate for lodging, but the crowds would be thinner. It was a neighborhood close to the Tower of Dhingol, with wide boulevards and grand houses built two and three stories high. Finding stables for the animals was hard enough. Finding lodging for four, even in the Heights, proved more difficult. In the end, they broke off into pairs; Mercer and Trix would look for rooms while Drake and Cinder searched nearby shops for much needed supplies.

  As twilight deepened into night and stars winked overhead, lamps sprang to life along the boulevards of Redgate, lighting the city in a cheery orange glow. The city took on a romantic feel, like Paris in the fall; though Cinder had never been, she’d seen pictures. The caster stopped and looked over his shoulder at the intricately carved spires of Dhingol. “Someone is still in the tower,” he croaked. “I wonder who.”

  “Is it magic?” Cinder asked, referring to the lamps.

  “Simple flame spell,” Drake told her. “The tower amplifies the spell so that the entire city is lit all at once.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she remarked.

  He nodded and motioned her into an apothecary where they bargained for spell components with a wizened old woman in a garishly colored headscarf. The pungent odor from a bubbling cauldron filled Cinder’s nose and made her eyes water. War and scarcity had driven prices up, but Drake got a fair deal by dropping Mercer’s name and insinuating that the goods were going to help in the war effort. A tactic that Cinder disapproved of, and she let Drake know with a strict look as soon as they were back outside.

  “We still paid more than the supplies were worth,” Drake said.

  The shops were closing and bells tolled midnight when Cinder and Drake turned their steps toward the stables. Cinder walked, bent at the waist, with a sack full of trail rations and supplies on her back. Drake carried a much smaller, lighter sack. As they labored up a hill, Cinder asked, “How come everyone in the Realms seems to know you and Mercer and Trix?”

  “Mercer’s never been killed,” Drake explained. “And I’m one of the best casters around. Trix is part of our group, so her name gets around.”

  “Why did you stop practicing psychology?” After a moment she added, “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I mind,” he said.

  “No offense,” Cinder said and felt her ears turn red.

  “None taken.”

  “Do you ever go back to the Real?”

  “Not if I can help i
t,” he told her. “There’s a lot of money to be made here.”

  “Two hundred and fifty a day is over ninety thousand Byte a year,” Cinder pointed out.

  “I did the math,” Drake assured her. “And, yes, I’m tempted. A seat on the Barron’s council would come with other benefits besides money. Access to the Tower for starters. All of Verastor’s notes are held in a library on the upper floors, or they were, unless the Sacred Order took them when they left. I could grow my abilities by leaps and bounds.”

  “Aren’t you worried about your mental health?” Cinder asked.

  He snorted. “Don’t let Mercer spook you. I hear Verastor was unstable from the beginning. Casting just sort of hastened his demise. I learned from one of his students and they all agree he was a headcase before he ever logged in. He did time for larceny and assault in the Real. Don’t misunderstand me, he was a genius, but he was a crazy genius.”

  “Yeah, the line between crazy and genius is usually pretty thin,” Cinder said.

  “The line between crazy and genius is success,” Drake told her.

  “I don’t follow.”

  He stopped, put his sack down, arched his back, then brought out his flask for a hit. Wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, he said, “Take the guy on the subway who mutters mathematical equations to himself. His hair is sticking up in places, his shoes are untied, he smells bad. He’s crazy, right?”

  Cinder nodded.

  “He finds the cure for cancer and suddenly he’s a genius,” Drake said. “Every genius is considered crazy until he does something noteworthy. The inventor who struggles in anonymity his whole life is called a kook by his wife. The kook who makes the next big breakthrough is called a genius. The only thing that separates them is success, but success is never guaranteed in life. Geniuses are simply odd people who dare to dream big, while the rest of us are content to play it safe.”

  He had a point and a valid one—if not poignant. Some people dare to dream big and that means failing big. A roll of the dice. Wasn’t that what Allison was doing here in the Savage Realms, risking life, limb, and sanity? What’s more, it showed another side to Drake that she’d never seen before. She said, “I never thought about it that way.”

  He shrugged, picked up his burden and they labored up the hill. They met Mercer and Trix in front of the stables.

  “Not a room to be had in the whole city,” Trix told them as they stopped in front of the wide double doors.

  Drake sighed. “The stables it is.”

  “We’re going to sleep in the stables?” Cinder asked.

  “It won’t be the first time,” Mercer told her.

  “After a while, you don’t even smell the manure,” Trix reassured her. “How did you two do?”

  Drake hitched a shoulder up. “Got most of what we’ll need for another week or two on the road.”

  He handed his bundle off to Mercer and they filed into the darkened stable. The only sounds were the soft swish of tails and the occasional snort. The cloying stink of manure filled Cinder’s lungs. Most of the animals were asleep, but a few pairs of large black eyes, reflecting the dim light from the street, watched them as they passed.

  Cinder passed her load off to Mercer and then scaled a ladder to the hayloft. Drake came behind her and she could feel his eyes on her ass. Trix came last.

  Cinder had been hoping for a hot bath and a warm bed, but the hayloft turned out better than she expected. Less objectionable would be a better way to say it. It was quiet, and the hay made for soft bedding, but the fragrance floated up from below and got trapped in the rafters. Trix was right, after a while you stop noticing it. They sat down to a cold supper of trail mix made from dried fruit, hard cheese, and nuts.

  After supper, they set about making potions for the journey ahead. It was a long way yet to the wall and they wouldn’t have much chance to brew mixtures in the wild. To do that, they needed a fire. Mercer and Trix cleared a space on the floor of the hayloft, Drake set down a blackened tin plate, and they lit a small blaze with twigs and tinder.

  “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t the first time you three have done this?” Cinder asked.

  “We weren’t always famous,” Mercer told her.

  “And often broke,” Drake added.

  “Spent a lot of nights in barns and haylofts,” Trix said.

  The stable was well ventilated. It would make for a cold night, but at the very least they wouldn’t die of smoke inhalation. Drake put Mercer and Trix to work, grinding and mixing ingredients, giving them precise instructions and barking at them when they messed up.

  “Go easy on that,” he grumbled as Mercer poured powdered asphodel root into an ampoule full of dried chicken blood. “You want to blow us all to hell?”

  “Keep your shirt on, Granddad.”

  While Mercer and Trix prepared components, Drake instructed Cinder in the use of magic. “It’s as much art as it is science, and concentration is key. Magic doesn’t come out of thin air. Just like a fire needs fuel, magic needs something to energize it. That something can be you, or components, like the potions we’re brewing. The potions are much the same as casting, only instead of using my own life force, my vitality, to juice the spell, I’m using nature.”

  “So you can do all the same things with potions, using roots and chicken blood?” Cinder asked. “Why use your own life force?”

  “Because this takes a lot longer and the components are rare,” Drake explained. “In a fight, you haven’t got time to fiddle around mixing and brewing. And you can’t aim a potion. I could probably bottle a kinetic attack, but I’d have to throw the vial and there’s a chance I’ll miss. Besides, if you accidentally broke the vial, you’d kill yourself. On the other hand, if we harness the power of the Mystical Plane, using our life force for control, we can direct it.”

  “I think I understand,” Cinder said.

  “Ready to try something simple?” Drake asked.

  She nodded.

  “Let’s work on the light spell I showed you.”

  Cinder cupped her empty hands together in her lap, closed her eyes, and her forehead wrinkled in concentration. A vein throbbed in her forehead and her hands trembled. For a long while, nothing happened. They had been working on this for days and Cinder had yet to produce even a decent spark, but Drake told her not to worry.

  She told herself to relax and focused on the spell. The breath caught in her lungs and the air around her charged with the scent of ozone. In her hands, a shimmering point of light took shape. Mercer and Trix clapped. Cinder opened her eyes, saw the light, and her brows went up in surprise and delight. Then the light winked out and her face fell.

  Drake waved away her disappointment. “You did good. We need to find a focus for you.”

  “A focus?”

  “A focus will help you concentrate your casting and acts as an amplifier for your will.” He indicated the staff laying across his lap. “I don’t carry this thing as a fashion statement. Took me most of a year to finish carving these runes and channeling the wood. The bigger the focus, the easier it is to channel your strength of will into a single point.”

  “So the Tower of Dhingol is basically the world’s biggest magical staff?” Cinder asked.

  He nodded. “You catch on quick.”

  “If I was in there, I could light all the lamps in the city?”

  He shook his head. “No, you’d likely destroy yourself if you tried. A focus works both ways. The bigger the focus, the easier it is to concentrate your willpower, but it acts like a lightning rod.”

  “Too big of a focus will channel too much energy?” Cinder said.

  Again he nodded. “Like I said, you catch on quick. Beware the caster who uses a small focus.”

  Cinder said, “Because he’s so powerful he doesn’t need much help focusing his energies.”

  “That’s right. Rumor has it, toward the end, Verastor was using a simple bracelet as a focus.”

  “I’d better go find a tr
ee trunk,” Cinder remarked.

  Chapter Fifty

  Cinder woke stiff and cold. The temperature had dropped in the night and the remains of their small fire didn’t provide any warmth. She had burrowed into the hay and curled into a ball, wishing bitterly for a soft mattress and a wool blanket. She heard Mercer’s heavy tread on the floor of the hayloft and Trix’s soft murmur. Drake was up and clearing his throat with a series of sounds that reminded Cinder of an old engine trying to turn over. Someone nudged her foot and she sat up with a groan, blinked, and peered sleepily at her companions.

  The lamps of Redgate had extinguished, leaving the streets in shadow, and the first pale rays of daybreak were bleeding across the dark sky. A hush laid over the city. The inhabitants who were awake and going about their day did so with a quiet respect for the early hour.

  “Morning,” Cinder muttered.

  “It is,” Mercer agreed. “And we overslept. Let’s gather our things and slip off before the stablehand comes along to finds us.”

  In less than ten minutes, they had erased any evidence of their stay, exited the stable, and made their way along the boulevard to a common house. A shingle swinging over the door showed a badger in a barrel. Flecks of green paint clung to the weathered sign.

  Inside, a cheery fellow in a frock coat with thick sideburns greeted them. “Welcome to the Green Badger. Come for breakfast or just coffee?”

  “What’s on the menu?” Trix wanted to know.

  “Good old-fashioned eggs and bacon with diced potatoes this morning,” the innkeep told her.

  They ordered food and took a table near the fire. The floor was polished hardwood, and a stuffed badger posed atop the mantlepiece. From the kitchen, Cinder sniffed sizzling bacon and her stomach let out a plaintive growl. By the time the innkeep came back with their food, the breakfast crowd had filled the common room with the chatter of clinking silverware and friendly voices. Cinder attacked her eggs, chomped down her bacon, and then took her time with the potatoes. The coffee was strong enough to wake the dead. Cinder only finished half of hers and gave the rest to Mercer, who sipped it down with an approving nod.